


Stardust

by glyphsbowtie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 17:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11235387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glyphsbowtie/pseuds/glyphsbowtie
Summary: Trapped in his mundane existence, Hanzo meets McCree at a party but nothing is what it seems.Warning: death, sort of





	Stardust

He is a beauty bathed in moonlight, an ethereal creature nobody is enough to touch. A cigarette hangs from his lips as his long, nimble fingers tune the guitar in his lap. His hair is long, tangled, unkempt; it falls into his face, partially obscuring the handsome features. No. Not handsome. Magnificent. His face is magnificent.

 

Hanzo grips his beer bottle so tightly that his fingers go numb, and it is a miracle he hasn’t smashed it through his sheer frustrated grasp. He knows he needs to approach this man, this midnight angel, but he isn’t sure what to say.

 

The party is winding down now. Hanzo has been sat alone for twenty minutes or so, just watching this man, trying to work up the courage to move closer. He can hear his friends talking, but it all seems distant, like nobody else in the world is real apart from the long-haired wonder with the guitar. Hanzo cannot understand why the man is sitting alone, why he isn’t surrounded by people who want to be close to him.

 

Suddenly, the man looks up, and bright amber eyes widen as they meet Hanzo’s intense gaze. Hanzo feels the blood rush to his cheeks at being caught, and he flinches, but the man grins at him around the cigarette. He has a slow, lazy smile; it’s sin itself, and something liquid and very hot uncoils within Hanzo. Something about that smile is an invitation, and Hanzo rises to his feet instinctively and crosses the decking, passing small groups of people, to the bench the man is sitting on.

 

“You been starin’ at me a long time,” the man remarks, and his voice is honey. His eyes sparkle up at Hanzo.

 

“I just liked… seeing you.” Hanzo doesn’t know what to do with his hands, doesn’t know how to do these things, and he feels awkward stood before this otherworldly creature.

 

The man smiles. He removes the cigarette from his mouth and drops it to the ground, crushing it beneath an old-fashioned boot. “Nobody’s seen me a long time, partner. It’s nice to be seen again.”

 

Hanzo doesn’t understand him, but it doesn’t matter. He clears his throat. “I’m Hanzo Shimada,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. He offers his hand to the man, who looks from it to Hanzo’s face and laughs.

 

He stands up, and he is taller than Hanzo. The movement pushes a wave of his smoky scent to Hanzo, who breathes it in greedily. “The name’s McCree,” the man grins, and he wraps his fingers around Hanzo’s offered hand. He doesn’t shake; his fingers, warm and rough, merely rest there, curled around Hanzo’s trembling hand.

 

Hanzo’s heart is thundering in his chest. He can’t remember the last time he felt this; it has been an incredibly long time since he has had a night of flirtation, a stolen kiss, even a meaningful glance with another man. Truthfully, the cold, successful businessman he plays by day has taken over every aspect of his life, and he is lonely.

 

McCree’s eyes bore into him, and they are filled with stardust. Hanzo imagines that the wonderful, strange man before him can read everything about him. McCree kisses him with feather-soft lightness, their hands still entangled. He tastes of cigarettes and rum, and the silky, cool lips are in direct and wonderful contrast to his stubbled chin.

 

“Do you want me to come home with you?” McCree breathes against his mouth.

 

Hanzo has never wanted anything so much in his life. He doesn’t know how to articulate this to this wonderful creature of the night, and he simply nods. This earns him another bright smile. McCree pulls him gently towards the exit, and they fall into a cab. Hanzo gives his address and sits staring nervously out of the window, suddenly terrified to look at the man who miraculously wants to come home with him. McCree reaches across the seat and holds his hand.

 

They reach the tall, white building Hanzo lives in and cross into the elevator without speaking. McCree raises an eyebrow when Hanzo pushes the button for the penthouse, but doesn’t comment. He looks somehow different in the artificial light, not quite real, somehow ethereal. He keeps his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans. When he catches Hanzo staring at him again, he smiles.

 

In the cool white marble of the entrance hall, Hanzo finally speaks. This is his domain; he should be comfortable with McCree here, but he isn’t. He is awed by McCree, and he is starting to suspect that McCree isn’t quite what he seems. “What are you?” he asks.

 

McCree looks surprised by the question. “I told you. The name’s McCree.”

 

“Not your name. Not  _ who _ . What are you?”

 

“You really want to know?” McCree asks, and he’s definitely surprised. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

 

Hanzo reaches out for McCree, emboldened by the unsure tone the other man has adopted. He cups McCree’s cheek. “I want to know,” he says.

 

McCree kisses him again, more firmly than last time, pressing Hanzo back against the wall. Hanzo moans aloud in surprise and pleasure at the unusual pressure of another human, and threads his fingers through McCree’s tangled hair.

 

McCree moves away, looks around. Hanzo tries to see the place through a stranger’s eyes. Everything is sterile and white. It is clearly one person’s home; actually, it could easily be unlived in. There is one photograph, that of a smiling young man with an untidy shock of green hair. McCree lifts it and looks back at Hanzo.

 

“My brother,” Hanzo answers the unasked question. “He is… he died.” Guilt and sadness stab at him, the familiar aches.

 

McCree nods as though he already knew this. He places the photograph down carefully and comes back to Hanzo, sweeping him into a strong embrace. Hanzo has not been held like this in years. McCree is strong, but there is something transient about him, almost fluid. Hanzo imagines that if he holds the other man too tightly, he will simply disappear.

 

“What are you?” Hanzo asks again.

 

McCree kisses his ear, whispers the words against it, “I am made of shadows and stardust.”

 

The words are ridiculous, but Hanzo doesn’t feel anything but a great, deep longing. He believes that this man is made of stardust and shadows and dreams. They are kissing again. He wants to lose himself inside of McCree, wants this midnight stranger to soothe away all the hurt and pain he has known for so long.

 

“Jesse,” he breathes, and the word makes them both freeze.

 

McCree is smiling sadly down at him.

 

“I know you,” Hanzo says, stepping back. “I know you, don’t I?”

 

“In a different life,” McCree says. “A different world.”

 

“I don’t understand.” Hanzo is panicking. Something is  _ wrong _ . His heart is beating with an aching ferocity. He stares up into the soft face of his miraculous man and feels a million memories lurking at the edges of his mind, just out of reach.

 

“It wasn’t you. It wasn’t me.” McCree is talking in a soothing, low voice. “But they needed someone to… to collect you.”

 

They are standing in a different place, a different world. It is nighttime here, too, a hot, heavy night. A man in a red serape and cowboy hat leans against a wall, smoking a cigar with his eyes closed. It is McCree. Hanzo looks from the McCree leaning against the wall to the McCree at his side and feels sick.

 

“What the-?”

 

His McCree raises a finger to his lips and they both watch as a man rounds the corner suddenly, gun pointing at the cigar-smoking McCree, who doesn’t even open his eyes before whipping out a gun and shooting the man easily between the eyes.

 

“Oh,  _ god _ ,” Hanzo utters in horror.

 

A man scuttles down the wall easily, cat-like and light, and lands before the McCree who just killed a man. This man has a bow and a frown. “I told you not to simply stand there, cowboy,” the man spits, his voice full of venom. “You might have been shot.”

 

“Woah there, Hanzo,” McCree drawls. “People might get the wrong impression and think you care for me if you keep talkin’ like that.”

 

Hanzo feels sick. He is on his knees and he doesn’t know how he ended up here. The other man-  _ Hanzo _ , the other  _ Hanzo _ , is a mirror reflection of himself. He has never worn his hair up like that, and is usually wearing suits, but apart from that, this is him.

 

“I do care for you, you thick-skulled creature,” the other Hanzo says.

 

Footsteps, and three men round the corner. McCree and Hanzo look at each other, McCree grinning, Hanzo raising his eyebrows. They turn, perfectly synchronised, and McCree points his gun at the men. Hanzo has an arrow pulled back, a fierce expression on his face.

 

The scene melts away as easily as it came, and Hanzo is back in his bedroom, gripping the edge of his bed. He looks up at the stardust shadow he brought home from the party from his place on the floor. There are tears on Hanzo’s face now, and they are there on McCree’s face now.

 

“I don’t understand,” Hanzo says.

 

“I don’t either,” McCree says, lightly. “I don’t know how you ended up here.”

 

“What was that?” Hanzo is trembling. “Why did you have a gun? Why did I have a bow and arrows?”

 

“You always did. I always did.” McCree reaches for Hanzo, tugs him to his feet. “Well. They aren’t us. We aren’t them. But we are.”

 

“What is happening?” Hanzo asks.

 

“I’ve come to get you. You don’t belong here.” McCree shrugs. He is smiling again, that sinful, late-night grin. “Come with me. Come out of the shadows.”

 

Hanzo nods.

 

* 

Dawn comes, and in a penthouse apartment, a man lies in white silk sheets, bathed in golden light which streams in through the window. His heart stopped beating at midnight, but despite this, there is a smile on his face.


End file.
